Training Day
by Daxxers
Summary: A day in the market place picking pockets returns more than gold coins and a few baubles to two thieves. Luck leads them to a priceless artifact, but they are soon forced to choose between stealing treasure and saving a young girl from a horrible fate. – (Not Beta-read. Hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism is welcome.)
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 – This Little Thief Went to Market**

The shadows engulfed her, their chill touch making her skin crawl. Ignoring the eerie sensation as best she could, Daelynn focused her darkvision. Her opponent was somewhere in these shadows. A white, man-like shape loomed before her. She leapt forward and struck quickly at the head and throat, easily blocking her foe's counterstrikes. A fierce sidekick sent the figure stumbling backward. Their master's concentration now broken, the shadows flowed away from the combatants and back to the corners of the room, from where they had been summoned.

Now she saw her opponent clearly. He wore a quilted jacket, heavy leggings and a padded leather helmet. She started to move forward to press her attack, but had already taken too long. She should never have waited for the loathed shadows to clear! The man had pulled out something from his belt. Straightening, he threw his right arm back, then quickly brought it forward. The lash cracked and cut Daelynn's left hand, laying open the flesh and creating an agony unlike any she had felt in her last fifty years of life. She cried out, tears filling her eyes, and stumbled. Using her good right hand, she drew and quickly hurled three shuriken. The intense pain made aiming impossible; throwing was purely an instinct. The first two stars were deflected by the whip-wielding figure but the third flew straight and true into the man's left leg, just above his knee.

He staggered and the elf was upon him. Using her pain as a goad, she struck with elbows and knees - blows and kicks delivered fast and hard, without mercy. The armored figure slumped to the floor and shouted his surrender. Delivering on final blow to the man's head, Daelynn stalked off to a table on the far side of the training room, cradling her left hand which was bleeding freely from the whip's deep cut. She could hardly breathe through the pain. Plunging her hand into a bucket of ice water, she gasped as more red-hot agony shot through her. The room spun. Steadying herself against the table, she focused her breathing. After a moment, she pulled her damaged hand out, and using her good hand, applied a greasy white ointment from a small open blue jar that sat next to the bucket. Almost immediately the bleeding stopped and pain eased. Slightly. She took a few deep, slow breaths, bringing her attention back to the moment, and turned to glare at her sparring partner.

The man was still on the floor but had rolled over and was now sitting up. He had removed his helmet and the lined, shining, sweating face of her mentor looked at her with something akin to approbation.

"Damn fine, girl. Damn fine indeed!" said Sir Roland.

"Fine? Fine!" the elf yelled back. Daelynn was livid. "This is going to scar! Just another mark to explain to friends. I sport new bruises, cuts and scrapes each week. Sarise thinks I have a boyfriend who is beating me. Thurk thinks I am into some crazy, self-flagellating cult. You wear armour and pads, while I fight in street clothes."

Having vented her anger, the girl turned back to tend her newest wound. Her mentor nodded his head and sighed. He grimaced as he pulled the throwing star from his leg, climbed slowly to his feet, and limped over to the table to stand beside the elf, ignoting the trickle of blood from his own wound.

"'Tis an odder case of me being "unfair?" he said in his lilting speech. "I thought we had done with thet. I've hurt ya w'rse than this over the last months."

The elf shook her head emphatically. "No! You have not. A whip?"

Daelynn sagged against the table, her bright violet eyes softening a few shades. "I am tired. Tired of your tricks, tired of your damned shadows, tired of pain, tired of training and doing nothing more than training, and training, ever training! It has been months…" Daelynn's voice had started to rise so she cut herself short, not willing to start a tirade.

The elder thief nodded his agreement. "And I, lass, am tired of getting' my arse kicked each and ev'ry day. When was the last time I won a round? Oh sure, ye take most the punishment, but I put thet down to ma meanness an' experience, an' yer kindly nature."

Roland paused.

"I'm runnin' out of tricks ta pull. Without the use of ma shadow magics and odd elixir, well I could na stand against ye. An' yer still young by elven stand'rds. Less than a hundred. Goddess help me when yer grown."

The man ran a hand through his thick white hair, pausing before continuing his assessment of his student. "Yer still waitin' too long to see what yer opponent is going ta do. Too much thinkin'. Too Elven. Don't hesitate girl. It could cost ye more than a cut hand. That was taday's lesson."

The man reached under the table and pulled out a small crate. Opening the lid, he pulled back a cloth and took out three small, glass bottles, each with a red wax stopper. He handed the vials to the elf.

"Drink one o' these now, an' anodder bef're ye go ta sleep t'night. The third one is for the mornin'. Be c'reful an' don't break any. It's demmed expensive stuff. Yer cuts and such will be healed complete an' more than a few old scars will ha' disapp'red by next week."

Daelynn had been placing the vials into a small leather bag as Sir Roland spoke. Upon hearing his last sentence, she stopped and inadvertently ran her fingers along the raised and jagged edges of the old, long scar that ran down the inside of her left forearm. Roland noticed the gesture.

"Na. Na thet one." He said. "'Tis too old. It'd take more pow'rful magics than I can p'rchase to heal that scar." Or the mark it has left on your soul, he thought to himself.

Daelynn looked at the old thief. He had never asked her about the scar, even though he had seen it a dozen times. Once, a month ago, she had almost told him how she had got it, but could not quite bring herself to tell the story. And today was not that time either.

"Thank you," was all she said, flipping a loose strand of raven hair off her face.

Roland pulled another vial from the crate, opened it, took a sip, leaned his back against the table, and regarded the room, ignoring his own wound. Daelynn pulled one of the vials from her bag and mimicked her teacher's actions.

The training room was many yards wide and ran the entire length of Sir Roland's large house. The stone floor was covered by woven mats. Tables held a variety of gear, including tools, lock sets, coils of rope and pieces of armor. The walls, broken by tall, narrow windows, were covered with racks that held the widest assortment of weapons Daelynn had ever seen; most of them having been wielded against her in this very room over the past several months. The late afternoon autumn sun illuminated most of the room. The north and south recesses were dim and shadow-filled.

She slowly sipped the sweet tasting elixir. Nothing seemed to be happening.

"Defeatin' locks – na bad. But thet's only human-made locks. Dwarven is anodder matter. Climbin' an' a stealthy walk – v'ry good. Weapon use – fair ta good, especially yer defense," Sir Roland paused in his evaluation of her training in the nightly arts. "Yer forgeries need lots o' work, but thet takes years to mast'r. Likewise disguise. So fer t'day, I think some pickin' o' pockets an' then we're done. How do ye feel about a trip ta the m'rket?"

Daelynn shook her head. "I enjoy the jobs we have done for your employer Sir Roland. While they have involved theft, your prey always appears to be rich and powerful, or thieves themselves. What was taken can hardly affect their lives much. But stealing from common folk? It is not honorable."

"Ha! You draw a line between hon'r an' dishon'r at a strange place Lady C'orillae! I'm na suggesting ye rob widows an' orphans. Although, I've done both, and with good reason. 'Spose a message need be carried, in secret, 'cross the city. Who bett'r than an old woman or sewer brat? Commonplace, na noticed by anyone - a p'rfect courier. Do ye threaten them in daylight ta get it? Bash their head in a dark alley? Or simply, quietly, relieve them o' their purse an' the secrets carried inside?"

Daelynn had learned months ago that her mentor had little patience for discussing "right" or "wrong" during training sessions, being always focused on the lesson at hand. Afterward, he sometimes entertained her arguments, systematically and logically destroying most of them. She acquiesced by reluctantly nodding her head and grabbing some random clothing from a nearby table.

"Skirt, big blouse, ragged shawl. I will try for a slatternly look."

"Good. An' keep thet damn tattoo cov'rd. Too recognizable."

He referred to the beautiful, intricate fish tattoo on her right shoulder that peeked out from under her short-sleeved top. Outlined in black, it featured delicate scales that shone gold, red or green depending on the light. It was unlike any tattoo Roland had seen.

"Ya say it were a gift?" he asked, nodding his head at the symbol.

Daelynn glanced at the tattoo and smiled. "Aye, from an aunt. When I was a child I nearly drowned in a raging river close to her home. I had been warned to stay off the riverbanks, but did not listen. She barely reached me in time. She spent that summer teaching me to swim in a quiet pool. When she felt I was ready, she threw me into the river telling me to reach the far bank or not return. I reached it, half-drowned with barely strength enough to crawl out of the cold waters. That winter she gave me this tattoo to serve me as a reminder of that lesson."

"I like her teachin' methods. An' her artistry. Beautiful, but too recognizable," he repeated. "And rememb'r to change yer walk, and slouch more. You've still too much an elvish air about ye when ye move."

"Well, in my defense sir, I am an elf."

"Try na ta be so much", was Roland's retort. "How's the hand?"

Daelynn flexed her injured hand. Surprised that there was no pain, she wiped the thick ointment off. Her hand was unmarked. She saw only smooth ice-blue skin. No wound. No scar. The small cut on her thumb from an exercise with knives earned last week was also gone.

"It is… fine", she said looking at the old thief with wide eyes. "It is healed!"

Roland lifted the vial he still held, as if offering a toast. "So's ma leg, mostly. Change an' meet me at the coach. We've a few hours b'fore dark. We start at the north end of the Old City Market!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – All That Glisters Is Not Gold**

Sir Roland stood in the window of a small room on the third floor of a disreputable inn located at the north end of the market. The inn's ground floor was an alehouse, while the upper two floors consisted of small rooms rented mostly by the hour. From his vantage point he watched his student amble down a narrow aisle way in the market. He had to squint to see her clearly; it was dusk and his vision was not what it had once been. Or his stamina, or his strength, for that matter, he opined. He idly twisted the black metal ring he wore on his left hand. His command of Shadow Magic was both blessing and bane. It helped make up for his advancing years, but there was a price to be paid. Thank Tymora, or rather her Matriarch, for a generous stipend. It helped him afford the elixirs and tonics he needed to offset the effects of both age and the Shadow curse, and continue to do his work. Or was it Tymora's work? After so many decades serving his Goddess and her Matriarch he was no longer certain where their needs left off and his began. He sighed, heavily. There was still much to teach his unwitting apprentice, but little time.

Tymora's Divine Seeker shook his head, trying to banish the melancholy mood that had overtaken him, and returned his attention back to the market. He had watched the elf's progress for the last hour; his eyes sweeping over the crowds below when not on her. Merchants and their customers, gawkers, soldiers; rich, poor and in-between; male and female; mostly human folk, but a fair number of elves and Hin; only a handful of dwarven-folk. The market, one of Capitol's largest, was a bustling, noisy, place. Hundreds of voices spoke a dozen languages. All was babble and an orderly chaos.

Aisles ran straight for many yards only to end at a stall, or suddenly turn and split into two or three aisle ways. Many stalls had awnings stretched over them, offering shade in the day, and perhaps obscuring the quality of the wares being sold from the less astute buyer. Most awnings had been taken down after the sun had set, but a few remained up, affording additional privacy to the merchants and their select customers. Small torches and lanterns had been lit in most of the stalls.

He had spotted several thefts over the last hour, but only two carried out by his student. Other thieves were working the marketplace, as they did every day. The City Guardsmen who patrolled the edges of the market on both foot and horse were more interested in watching and talking to the more attractive of the many young women who strolled in and out of the square than in enforcing the law. He knew that only in the event of an altercation escalating into something large and ugly, would they interfere.

Daelynn's first two lifts of the day had gone well. The first was a well-dressed young woman wearing far too much jewelry, who wandered the market not to buy anything but to show off her wealth. The second, a tipsy soldier gawking at passersby near the east fountain. The loss of the brooch would give the damsel something to complain about for weeks; the soldier would think he had drunk his pay away at a faster rate than usual.

Her next and last target of the day was a merchant in large stall at the end of an aisle by the wall that separated the market from the Scribe's Quarter. The fat purse on his belt was tempting. The merchant, a large, bearded man, was oblivious to everything around him, focused solely on adjusting the goods that crowded the shelves of his large, disorderly vending stall. An easy lift. The man turned away from her, his purse still obvious, but now Daelynn would have to enter the stall if she wanted to get it. She shuffled forward, dirty hands indiscriminately picking over items on the shelves; shawl covering her head and face. Just an older woman, one of Capitol's many poor, trying to find a bargain.

What an odd assortment of junk, Daelynn thought! No rhyme nor reason to its order. How could anyone keep track of the mess in here? She noticed a bored, bland-looking red-haired man in a grubby smock standing near the entrance, eyeing the merchandise with little real interest. Daelynn worked her way closer to the merchant, moving slowly, not paying any outward attention to the man. The purse looked heavy. Possibly attached to his belt by a stout cord, or maybe a fine chain? Grab, cut, and run would be the best way to handle that. A failed lift left little opportunity for a second attempt.

The young elf was now beside the merchant. She pawed through items with her right hand while her left hand drifted towards the man's belt and purse. A strong hand unexpectedly grasped her left wrist and twisted, creating a sudden, sharp pain.

Roland saw that Daelynn was inside a stall, working her way closer to a large dark-bearded man who had his back half turned to her. A second man casually moved closer, effectively barring any exit from the stall. A Thieves Guild trap for rogue pickpockets. Attracted to a fat purse, the unlucky thief is hemmed in. The two enforcers would take whatever coin their prey had, then either press them into the Guild's service or send them on their way with a beating. The Guild barely tolerated competitors and this was their way of letting freelancers know that it was a safer course of action to pay guild dues than not.

"Enough o' that, wench! You'll now answer to the Guild! We don't stand none o' you rascals and it'll be…"

The large man's next words were cut off as Daelynn easily twisted her arm free and jammed the heel of her right hand into his nose. A quick glance over her shoulder showed her the red-haired, whom she had thought a customer, closing in. Turning, she ran to the back of the stall which abutted the stone wall, and vaulted onto the disorderly shelves, the Guild member a step behind her. She jumped onto the wall, pushing off it with both feet and throwing her body backwards. She had timed it perfectly. Her outstretched hands found the man's shoulders, her body and legs pivoted, swinging up and over him. Landing in a crouch a half-yard behind him, Daelynn quickly shifted her weight and released a powerful kick into the back of the Guildman's left leg. The leg buckled. He fell heavily to the ground.

Now, where was the 'merchant'? She whirled around, still in a crouch. He stood between her and the exit, a scowl on his bloodied face, feet wide apart, and in his hands swung a length of heavy chain made of large, rusted iron links. The makeshift weapon was intimidating looking, but too heavy to be deployed with any speed. Daelynn charged. The 'merchant' swung the chain with both hands, intent on striking down the insolent figure in front of him, but the elf was too fast. Before the chain could complete its arc, she dove forward between the man's splayed legs, sliding on the sandy ground, almost to the stall's exit.

The chain ended its course by slamming into the ground at the spot where she had been crouched. The large man roared in frustration, turned and started after her, followed by his cohort who could only manage an awkward, limping run. Away from the Guild's stall the aisles were crowded with end of day shoppers. The two men pushed through the throng, each nursing their own particular wound. At an intersection of two wide aisles they found a dirty shawl on the ground. There was no sign of their prey.

Daelynn quickly passed through the maze that was the Old Market. She turned left, made two right turns and a final left, slipping into a darkened doorway at the far side of the square. Through the partly open door she surveyed the street. No one seemed interested in where the woman with the ratty clothes had gone. And no sign of her two pursuers. She watched a moment longer then, smiling to herself, walked to end of the short hall and mounted the stairs to the third floor.

She passed a few men and one woman in the hall. All parties kept their eyes averted, as was the custom when visiting such an establishment. Strict confidence was the rule. No one wanted to lock eyes with a neighbor, friend or family member in such a place. Daelynn knocked on a door, giving the pre-arranged signal. Roland's voice answered her from inside the room. She entered and saw the lanky figure of her instructor leaning against the window frame. He was peering outside, a feeble lantern on a small table beside him illuminated his face. He looked thinner then when they had first met several months ago, his face more lined. Was it age, fatigue, worry?

"Did you know?" she asked.

"What? Thet it were a trap? 'Course I did. Just weren't sure they were set up today or thet ye'd find yer way there."

Daelynn sighed heavily.

"Does the testing never end?"

"If I'm not testin' ye, then life is," was the man's reply. "Good lifts. And ye evaded the Guild. So, well done. Ye pass. We're done for the day!"

Daelynn was silent on their walk to the market's north exit where their coach had been stationed. Her eyes casually scanned the crowds, noting people, their dress, manner of walking. 'Know the ground ye walk on, know the places ye tread' had been a painful lesson learned few months past.

A tall, modestly well-dressed, young man walking, no, striding through the press, caught her attention. His manner spoke of a sense of purpose. Chest thrust out, chin held high. A self-satisfied smile on his face. Was that a glint of gold at his waist? He absently brushed long hair from his eyes. The back of his left hand sported a black tattoo in the form of a jagged scar.

The crowd surged and flowed as crowds do; people pressed together, then pulled apart. A foot trod on by a stranger; someone's elbow accidently stuck into another's ribs; a hand brushing lightly across a body trying to avoid too close a contact. An awkward, uneven, dance.

The two thieves settled into the coach and Roland tapped on the roof. The vehicle swung off to the east. "I saw thet", he stated. "Black Scar, weren't he?"

"Aye", she replied, and handed him a small tube made of leather. "I thought it was gold, but it appears to be only a gilt!"

The tube was as long as a man's hand, less than half a palm wide, and embossed with a wavy pattern. Both ends of the tube had metal and leather caps. A moment earlier it had been secure in the sash of Black Scar messenger.

Roland smiled. "An odd contain'r. Message tube p'rhaps? We may as well have a look, eh?"

He handed the object back to the elf. Daelynn appraised it. End caps sealed with wax. Mediocre craftsmanship and worn by rough handling. The gilt had been added to make the item look more valuable. She flaked away the cheap wax and drew the cap off. Inside was a rolled piece of parchment. She pulled it out, unfurled it and tried to make sense of the message. Roland watched her brow furrow. The elf's lavender eyes flicked up and down, then across the parchment. A lock of dark hair fell across her face. She absently brushed it back. After a few minutes Daelynn shook her head and handed the message to Sir Roland.

"I can make no sense of it. Three lines. Each with several symbols and a few runes."

"Yer Heraldry trainin's of little practic'l use, it seems."

"We are still studying how a Court functions. Missives are to be covered later."

The elder thief scanned the parchment, a small smile on his lips. He handed it back to Daelynn, with a question.

"What are the key components in most any message?"

"Easy", replied the elf. "Who? What? Where? When? Why? How?"

"Of course. Now 'who' is not likely a part of any message carried by a lowly gang memb'r. Ye tell 'im where to go and to whom to deliver it. It's a short note, so not much room for explainin' a 'why' or 'how'. Questions thet need answ'rs like thet are asked face to face."

The elf's brow was still furrowed as she again looked over the message. "Three lines. Possibly orders? 'What', 'Where' and 'When'?

"Aye. The last line is a date. See the three moons? Third week in the month. The dwarven rune? It's the number five. So, fifth day of third week. Thet's t'day. And moon symbols and not suns mean night, not day."

"The last moon has a cross on it," Daelynn observed.

"Crossed sun is midday. Crossed moon is midnight."

The elf was quiet for another moment. "Ah! The second line is 'where'. I am sure of it. Oh, I should know it. The symbols are familiar. I have seen them before!"

"Ye have indeed," Roland agreed. "A cross and a star hangin' on a trader's balance. The Cross and Star Merchant House. They're down 'tween the river and the c'nal."

"But the first line? Another trader's balance but circled in black, and what looks like three suns next to it? No. Coins. Gold coins."

"Thet calls fer special knowledge. It's a Black Bazaar, lass."

Daelynn stared at Roland, a blank look on her face.

"Stolen goods up fer sale to the highest bidder," Roland explained. "Maybe happens only once ev'ry half decade? Highly illegal, the Bazaar is sponsored by the Thieves Guild but anyone who can pay the fee can auction an item. Usually only rare objects are put up. Things thet can't be easily fenced. Stolen or illicit goods thet need a home. P'rhaps even a magical object or exotic creature. Lots o' side deals and tradin' go on, too. A Black Bazaar attracts all types; the less than scrupulous merchants, gangs, acquis'tive lords an' ladies, collectors of antiquities, even mages an' the odd Baron."

" _Please tell me we are going!_ "

Roland laughed at her eagerness. He started to shake his head, then stopped and looked intently at the young elf.

"I've been out of touch this last half-year or so, odderwise I'd ha' known about this. Never has it been of interest to ma employer because I'd ha' appr'piated whatever they wanted bef're it could get to a Bazaar. But maybe ye should see this. A lot of our more competent and dang'rous competit'rs in Capitol would be there. 'Tis neutr'l ground for the night. Well, mostly. All right then. We go."

A small, sharp noise echoed from the coach as it passed a gang of street urchins, startling them. It could have been the squeak of a wheel rubbing against an axel, or maybe a squeal of delight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – The Warehouse**

With several hours to go before the Bazaar, the pair returned to Sir Roland's house in Middle Hill where the elder thief enlarged upon the matter of a Black Bazaar and named some of the key players and factions from Capitol's underworld who might attend the function.

"The Thieves' Guild might host the affair, but 'tis open to any who can aff'rd the fee. This", he pointed to the parchment now unrolled and lying on the table between them, "should be our pass to get in."

"And once inside," asked Daelynn her violet eyes bright, wide and shining?

"'Tis na uncommon to remain hooded or even masked. Many bidders will have bodyguards as they'll be carryin' a lot of gold or gems. Anything purch'sed thet night must be paid fer immediately afterw'rds. The transfer of goods and coin gen'rally takes place in anodder room away from the tradin' floor."

He paused, his eyes looking far away back in time. "I rememb'r one Bazaar where nothin' changed hands. Askin' prices were too high. An anodder where the highest bid object was a pound o' dried herbs from some fergotten jungle. Supp'sed to be a key ingredient to a powerful magical spell. Went fer a few thousand gold pieces. Rumor had it thet the plant ended up being used in some lord's stew!"

"Are many items traded at a Black Bazaar?"

"Lots o' side deals take place, but the main items to be bid on are usually few. Maybe two or t'ree. But worth big sums. Not unusual for some items to fetch, oh up to five thousand pieces. The highest I ev'r heard of were jest over twenty-thousand."

The elf's eyes widened even more.

"That is a small fortune! One could live comfortably for many years on twenty-thousand silvers!"

Roland smiled. "Nae. Twenty-thousand gold, lass."

Daelynn was left speechless by the figure.

"Well, we won't be biddin'! Oh, an' trade-craft will na' be tolerated by the Guild! Thems, the Merchant Guild, and I'll wager both Black Scar and Red Scar gangs'll have enforcers about. Best not get caught dippin' a pocket or liftin' a purse."

"I will behave myself, Sir Roland."

The elder thief mumbled something even Daelynn's sharp ears could not catch. "We should be off soon. Ye've got clothing and equipment here. Dress for Old Town. The Docks. Be prepar'd but bring nothin' too large or heavy. We leave on the short side of a quarter hour."

Daelynn took more than the quarter hour to change. It was approaching a half hour and still Sir Roland waited. It had been many years since he had had to wait for a young woman to change her garb. He was getting impatient. He heard a door shut. Ah, there she was. The elf came down the hall from the small room she used when at her mentor's. She had washed; hands and face now clean and free of the grime she had covered them in at the Market. Gone were the ragged skirt and blouse, replaced by non-descript but well fitted street clothes – a long sleeved, heavy linen shirt and long breeches; a vest and wide sash; well-worn but sturdy leather boots that reached to mid-calf. She wore a dark scarf around her neck and the same grey cloak she had worn the day she had first met Sir Roland. Her mane of shining black hair was tied back, covering her long elven ears. The knife she'd liberated from a thief at Lord Kessik's gala several months ago was strapped in a sheath to her left thigh.

As they settled into the coach, Roland indicated her knife with a nod of his head. "Any odder weapons?"

"Small dagger in my right boot. Four throwing stars in my sash," she answered. "Flash powder up my right sleeve."

"Good. Now, we're just out to take a look an' see, but if things get tricky follow my orders. And if I say "run", ye run like the Wizards o' Thay are after ye! Got it?"

Daelynn assured the old thief that she 'got it'.

"An' use thet scarf to make sure those pretty ears an' yer face stay cover'd. The longer ye can keep an enemy in the dark about who or what you are, the bett'r. Lots of elves in Capitol, but still a min'rity comp'red to humans. Stay in shadows so no one sees yer skin color. It may be quite some time bef're anyone identifies ye as a Moon Elf."

"Any other advice?" Daelynn asked a little tartly, annoyed at having the obvious stated.

"As a matt'r of fact, yes. Yer speech. Ye're well-schooled. Ye use a lot of High Common – what odders call 'fancy words'. And yer phrasin'. There's a rhythm to it thet tells me yer first language was an Elvish tongue. The way we talk tells a pers'n who listens, really listens, a lot about us. I'd suggest when out on the street working, like tanight, ye use a dialect. I often use a regional dialect myself, like Master Berwick's Southern intonations. It hides ma natural, sonorous tones. Ye managed the Eastern drawl just fine a few months back. What else can ye do? Try speakin' like a North'ner."

Intrigued by this exercise Daelynn and made a brief statement applying the clipped northern speech pattern that her friend Thurk used. Roland grinned.

"Na bad. Ye've a gift. If I were ye I'd save the Eastern drawl fer when ye play 'Lady Smantha' or some uppity snob. Use the North dialect for work on the street. Patt'rns of speech and wording are almost as effective in hiding the true ye as being able to use Voice," he instructed, referring to the vocal talent of being able to completely alter one's way of speaking used by actors, bards, and some confidence men.

"Are we not heading to the docks?" asked Daelynn, peering out of the coach.

"Aye, but not directly. We'll end up opposite the trading depot held by the Cross and Star Merchant house. They're little better than smugglers and fences but somehow they keep their chart'r. Used a lot by thieves so I'm suppose'n there'll be Guild boys n' girls present ta keep watch."

The coach stopped at a narrow bridge that spanned The Creek, the widest of several canals that ran through Capitol. The bridge was old, high arched, made of stone, and always seemed to be under repair. On the far side of The Creek was an area of warehouses, barges and granaries that serviced the lower part of the city. Beyond them was Capitol's river, The Silver, that flowed between Southern and Central provinces to the sea, fifty leagues to the east.

Light and movement could be seen on the far side of the bridge. It appeared that at least one warehouse crew was working late into the night. Sir Roland stepped from the coach with Daelynn following close behind.

"With no odder coach or cart traffic about they'll be sure to hear us crossin' the bridge," stated Roland. Daelynn nodded agreement; the combination of stone cobbles and iron banded wheels made for a terrible racket. "We cross on foot. As ye've no doubt guessed, our targ't is the lighted warehouse."

"Why such stealth? We have an invitation."

"Aye, but it's stolen. Best to have a little look 'n see bef're making an appearance."

"'Know your exit before you enter'," quoted Daelynn from another pain-filled lesson.

"Hmph. So, you do listen when I go on about things," was Roland's observation.

Daelynn walked at the man's left side. Both had their cloak drawn about them, hood raised. The skies were partly clear with the brighter stars visible. No torches lit the spans in this part of Capitol and the moon was masked by cloud. In silence and in shadow the two cloaked figures crossed the bridge.

The warehouse yard was filled with the paraphernalia of river commerce. Old barges, bales, stacks of barrels and piles of rope offered both obstacles and plenty of cover. Nearer the warehouse itself, some eighty yards distant, three small bonfires burned, lighting the area around the warehouse's large double doors, which were partly open. Although they could see light spilling through the doors, the two trespassers could not see what might be happening inside.

Roland spoke in a soft murmur. "See thet catwalk, just under the eaves, right corn'r?"

Daelynn grunted a soft assent.

"I'll meet you under it in a quart'r hour. Listen for the bells from the watchtower."

She turned to ask him why they would separate but he had already disappeared into the night. Another test? The elf moved silently, following a zig zag path, merging with shadows and using cover afforded by the larger items stored or strewn across the yard. Her path had taken her slightly past the corner of the building in whose shadows she assumed Sir Roland waited.

Damn any test! He could wait a little longer! Keeping to the shadows, the elf crept to the end of the warehouse's east wall where faint light flickered off the water of The Creek. A wooden pier spanning some two yards separated the warehouse from the dark waters of the canal. The sounds of heavy breathing, swearing and the rattle of chains and squeaking of pulleys told her that heavy objects were being moved about. Daelynn was about to peer around the corner when the sound of leather scraping over wood sent her scurrying to the deepest shadow. She flipped her cloak over her head an instant before a large man stepped out from behind the warehouse. He walked a few paces along the pier, stopped and looked around him. Satisfied as to his privacy, he fumbled with his breeches, straightened and relieved himself in the canal. Finishing his commune with nature, the man adjusted his clothing, and strode back along the peer and out of Daelynn's sight.

The elf slipped up to the edge of the warehouse, crouched low and peered around the corner. Torches set on the wall of the warehouse illuminated the space between the building and the canal showing her several men struggling to load casks, crates and bundles from the pier up a gangplank on to a long narrow, single decked, two masted ship. A pair of cranes positioned on the roof of the warehouse handled larger pieces of freight.

The ship was unlike any she had ever seen. Every surface, each spar and plank, was painted black. Though she knew little about matters maritime, the vessel looked weather-beaten. The sides of the ship were scarred and the ropes and lines that made up its rigging looked tattered and messy. On the ship's prow a large painted eye, half closed, glared out at the world. She assumed its mate was on the other side of the bow, glowering with an equal disdain across the canal.

The men moving up and down the gangplank and on the ship were all dressed in black. Whether robed, armored or tunicked, every piece of clothing was as black as the ship. They called out, spoke and swore in a strangely accented Common. Most were bearded. All were armed.

Finishing her surveillance, Daelynn was about to quit her post when her gaze was attracted to an odd movement at the ship's bow. The painted eye now appeared to be staring wide-eyed. What illusion was this? She would have sworn the design had been of a half-closed eye. She shifted her position slightly to afford a better view. At her movement the eye rolled up, then back down, finally settling at a point almost exactly where Daelynn skulked in shadow. She quickly pulled her head and shoulders back around the corner of the warehouse. _Ù_ _dun_! What sorcery was this?

Quickly fishing in her belt, she pulled out a small pouch and took from it a round mirror no wider than the palm of her hand. Slowly, she positioned the mirror so that she could see the ship but remain hidden herself. Her breath came thin and fast as she again saw the eye move. It seemed to be searching for something. For her? After a moment, it returned to its original position, lid half-closed, glaring out along the pier and off into the distance.

Pocketing her mirror Daelynn moved to the corner of the warehouse, where beneath the catwalk, she found Sir Roland in deep shadow, seated upon an upturned rowboat. Quickly and quietly the elf described what she had seen. The elder thief shook his head.

"I'd ha' guessed a sea-farin' mage p'rhaps. Except for these men in black. There's somethin' familiar about 'em. Time to use our invitation an' see what's all about!"

Before she could reply Roland jumped up and walked briskly around the corner entering the circle of light thrown out by the closest bonfire. Daelynn pulled her scarf up over the lower half of her face, adjusted the hood of her cloak, and scurried to catch up to Roland. A large young man left the fire and walked toward them, holding out his hand as he bade them stop. His other hand rested comfortably on the hilt of a sword worn at his waist.

Daelynn noticed a jagged red scar tattooed on the back of the man's left hand. A Red Scar gang member. The hired help of which Roland had spoken. Her mentor nodded, drew the message tube from his belt, and handed it to the guard. While the Red Scar pulled out and confirmed the message, Roland idly played with the metal ring on his left hand. The shadows at the edge of the firelight grew darker and crept closer to their master.

"Good. And the password," asked the Red Scar guard?

"Ah. Yes," replied Roland.

The guard looked from one cloaked figure to the other. "Well?"

Roland turned to Daelynn. "Well? Give it to him you dolt, or have you forgotten that as well?"

Daelynn quickly looked at Roland, turned to the guard, then back to Roland. "Password?" she said in a hushed, confused tone.

"Yes. Yes. The password. Give it to him."

The guard was getting annoyed. He glared at the two imbeciles before him. Placing his hands on his hips, he fixed Daelynn with a glare and impatiently demanded, "The password, idiot. Give it to me!"

"Yes, sir. Of course. Here it is," she stammered. She leaned forward. Shadows closed around them, hiding the attack. Daelynn and Roland struck at almost the same instant. The guard's head was rocked by two solid blows; his eyes rolled up and he slumped forward, to be caught by the elf. The shadows still flowed around them, but now strained against the firelight.

Daelynn lifted the man, draping him across her shoulders, his weight causing her to bend forward at a very uncomfortable angle. She waddled off into the deeper darkness. Roland released the covering shadows that had hid them from a chance glance by any of the several people gathered at the other two fires some thirty yards away. Daelynn returned after several minutes to find him crouched and warming his hands at the fire.

He looked up and smiled at her. "Thet 'password' seldom fails me."

The elf shook her head. "He sleeps under the rowboat. No one should trip over him there. We need to get inside before they change the guard and his absence is noted."

"Aye. Secret invitations, guards, an' now passwords? They're makin' this little party a tad more secure than normal. Wonder what's fer sale t'night, eh? Look. People are movin' inside. Time to join 'em."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – The Black Bazaar**

Daelynn and Roland were among the last to enter the warehouse. A large man clad in black and smelling of the sea gave their pass only a cursory glance. He remained by the door as the invited guests moved forward to the large open space at the center of the warehouse. Several dozen people were present. Many wore cloaks or robes and about a third were hooded or masked. From the way they moved, dressed or spoke Daelynn surmised that the crowd consisted mostly of men with a handful of women. Besides two dwarves and a handful of Hin, there were a half-dozen elves that she could make out. The majority were human. People collected in small groups and conversation flowed freely. Many of the guests seemed to know at least one other person in the crowd, disguised or not. Old friends and competitors greeted each other.

At least two dozen of the assembled were the men in black from the ship. They conversed only with their shipmates and in murmurs. Even with her sharp elven hearing it was difficult to make out what they said. While they spoke the Common tongue, their accent was strong and unlike any Daelynn had heard.

Tables had been laid out forming a half circle in the middle of the warehouse floor. Some held wine and ale, others an assortment of goods that had fallen into the Thieves Guild hands and for a variety of reasons could not be fenced. Jewelry, arms, decorations, plate ware, even clothing were offered for sale. She noticed a set of silver candlesticks with the baronial crest of a well-known Southern family on one table.

"Ah. Now I recognize them."

Daelynn turned to Sir Roland.

"The men in black?" she asked.

"Aye. They're 'Zentahri'."

"And what are Zentahri?" she asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"The Zhentarim are slavers, my little dove," replied a voice behind them.

Daelynn started and spun around. Sir Roland uttered a sigh and slowly turned to greet the man who had intruded on their conversation. "Good evenin', Sard."

The man addressed as 'Sard' bowed slightly to the elder thief. He was dressed in a similar manner to Roland and Daelynn but the cut of his clothes and the material of which they were made was much finer. Instead of cloak or mantle to hide his features Sard sported a mask that covered the upper half of his face. Dark eyes offered a steady and frank gaze that Daelynn found oddly unsettling. The man had a long jaw and a strong mouth, now creased in a self-assured smile.

"Roland. You old fox! It has been some time. And who is this little dove?" Sard asked, indicating Daelynn, again using the euphemism popular in Capitol for a catamite.

Daelynn put a hand on the hilt of her knife and leaned forward. Her eyes, almost level with Sard's, altered from lavender to purple.

"Call me that again," she hissed, "and I will…" her threat remained unfinished as Roland laid a hand gently on her shoulder and interrupted.

"This is 'Kestrel', my apprentice."

"Ah? Apprentice? Well good Kestrel, do you know that Roland has had only three apprentices before you? Failures and disappointments, all."

Roland offered a rueful smile. "One had some promise, but his talents are squandered."

"Yes, indeed. Today he is a Thieves Guild lackey. The first was too cocky and got himself killed soon after leaving Roland's side. The third was lured away by a deceitful witch and his soul now lies in darkness. Or so I have heard. Careful Kestrel. You too may come to a bad end following this sly one."

Roland ignored Sard's jibes and returned the conversation to his comment regarding the Zentahri or Zhentari. "Slavery is forbidd'n in the Kingdom. Why are they here?"

"Oh, slavery is but one of their past-times. They also offer their services as mercenaries to whomever can afford them. And they are great traders! Their caravans and ships can be found throughout and around all of Faerun. This lot is a long way from home – they live far to the southwest. They travel here perhaps once every few decades? They deal with the Guild and some of the dodgier merchant houses. Whatever they bring will be exotic, and expensive."

Roland nodded his head as Sard recounted what he knew of the black-clad men. He had heard some of this before, but it had been decades ago.

"Looks like things are goin' to get start'd," Roland said, indicating movement near the warehouse doors that opened onto the dock.

Two groups of Zhentarim crossed the warehouse floor. The first consisted of three men walking abreast. The first and third man walked with bared swords, using them to guide the crowd out of their path. The man in the middle carried a small white chest about six hands wide and three hands high. They moved to one of the tables. The second group was made up of six men. The first and last in this group also brandished swords. The remaining four men pulled and pushed a cart across the wooden floor. A tall, narrow structure, taller than a tall man and not quite two yards wide, rested on the cart. The object was draped in black cloth.

With nods to his former master and the young apprentice with the amazing eyes, Sard turned and made his way through the crowd. Daelynn and Roland watched discreetly. Sard moved gracefully, slipping between people, never letting himself come in to contact with anyone. As he approached a small knot of Zhentarim, a large, bald, bearded fellow, also clad in black like his confreres, greeted him with a nod. A hurried conversation followed. It was obvious even at a distance that Sard did not like what he heard. Pointing to the tall, draped object, he adamantly shook his head, and made a curt gesture with his left hand. From out of the crowd, several non-descript men and two women rapidly but quietly moved to encircle the group of black-clad men. The Zhentari leader sneered at the newcomers. He said something that made his men laugh and Sard's followers grimace. Turning back to Sard, the man pulled out what appeared to be a thick scroll from beneath his cloak and handed it to him.

The Thieves Guild representative unrolled the scroll, his eyes skimming the document. The Zhentari pointed to something. Sard's face took on a sour look, as if he had just eaten something that disagreed with him. He gestured to a small man who stood several yards away. The little fellow scurried forward, slipping gingerly in-between larger men and women to arrive at Sard's side. Sard handed him the scroll. From his waist pouch the smaller man took out an object that appeared to be made from glass or crystal. He held it in front of the document and scanned it, taking his time, much to Sard's obvious impatience. When his examination was complete, he stretched up on tip toe and whispered into Sard's ear. It was again obvious that Sard was not pleased with what he heard.

Nodding curtly to the gathered Zhentarim, Sard stalked off to the far side of the gathering. His associates who had circled the men in black melted back into the crowd. The bald man in black shouted to attract the attention of the assembled.

"Thieves, cut-throats and scum of Capitol – welcome!" He shouted in passable Common. His rude greeting was received with laughter. "Two great prizes we offer to you tonight! One, an ancient treasure once held dear by Tyche, Goddess of Lucks, herself. The other, exotic creature sent from the heavens themselves!"

Daelynn smiled at the auctioneer's banter. Such hyperbole was to be expected.

There was movement in the crowd as a person, cloaked in dark red, strode from the middle of the assemblage up to the Zhentari leader. Whispered words were exchanged. The red-clad figure seemed to be urging some action that the black-clad man initially resisted. After another moment of entreaty the red-cloak made a curt gesture to two Black Scars who were standing near-by. They bent down, retrieved a small chest that lay between them, and carried it up to the auctioneer, who looked a little off put. Murmurs arose from the gathered at this unseemly breach of Black Bazaar etiquette. The black-clad men with the bared swords clanged them together until the crowd quieted.

The red-cloaked being, a man surmised Daelynn, opened the small chest and stepped back to allow the Zhentari an unobstructed view. Whatever he saw, pleased him. He nodded to his men who guarded the white chest; the red-cloak stepped over to them and one of the Zhentari opened it. Daelynn and Roland were close enough to catch a glimpse of the object inside.

"Tyr's left hand!" swore Roland softly. Daelynn was not certain but she thought she heard a voice behind her utter "Beshaba's breasts!" It took a moment for her to understand what she was looking at. The object was the size of a large dinner plate, or more correctly, half a plate. It was blue, and even at a distance she could see a gold filigree was worked in to the blue in an intricate and familiar fashion. It was the reverse image of the Trysech they had stolen from Lord Kessik's estate several months ago.

Roland was staring at the object, slowly shaking his head and muttering to himself. All she could make out was "it should not be here." At a command, the Black Scars and Zhentarim exchanged chests. The red-cloaked one and his followers stepped to one side. It appeared that there was still some business to be completed.

"So sorry my guests," exclaimed the bald Zhentari auctioneer. "Private deal has been made. Price, ten-thousand gold. Any complaints, speak to my client."

He finished by pointing to the man in red.

The crowd reacted as expected to so high a price being offered. Voices rose in a swell that consisted of surprise, astonishment and disbelief. A man and a woman, both masked and wearing brown robes, broke from the crowd and walked purposefully towards the red-garbed one. It was obvious from the look on the lower half of their faces and stances that they were not pleased. The man in red opened his cloak and drew back his hood. He glared at the approaching pair.

On seeing his face, the pair slowed. Then stopped. The man and woman looked at each other. The man shook his head. The woman shrugged, and the two turned away.

As they moved off, Roland and Daelynn had a clear view of the man in red.

"Braxes", they said at the same time. Daelynn looked at Sir Roland who was staring hard at the Beshaban cleric.

"You know him," she asked?

"Aye. Former Tymoran acolyte, now a follow'r of the Bad Sister. Mistress Alline tol' me about yer adventure. Rememb'r?"

"'Told you', yes. But you recognized him on sight. You know him!"

"Keep yer voice down," Roland whispered fiercely. "An' look away. We needn't attract attention, eh? He hasn't rec'nized me, so we have an advan'age."

The crowd's murmurs subsided as the auctioneer pointed to the tall, black, draped object with a flourish. "I promised you exotic creature? A rare beauty. A prize? A pet? A plaything? I present you, gift from heavens!"

"An advantage? For what?" the elf demanded.

At the auctioneer's signal the heavy black cover fell aside. In a tall, narrow, iron cage, stood a young women, hardly more than a girl. Weighed down by silver chains, she was near to naked. The ragged green shift she wore did more to accentuate her youthful curves then hide them. Rising from her shoulders were a magnificent pair of glowing, white, feathered wings.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 – The Angel**

The crowd's stunned silence lasted only seconds. Shouts of surprise, outrage, and wonder echoed off the warehouse rafters. The Zhentarim banged swords and tables trying to restore order. Daelynn stared at the caged figure, trying to understand what she was seeing.

"An… angel?" she asked aloud.

"Aasamir, or some such," was the reply from the man next to her. She looked over at Sard, who had appeared next to them. His comment referred to the mythical offspring said to result from a union of a human or demi-human with an Angelic being. The elf shook her head in disbelief. She'd heard rumors of the existence of such extra-planar creatures - everyone knew stories of angels and demons. Some, her parents included, claimed to have met and fought the latter.

The crowd had settled somewhat, but the auctioneer had to shout to be heard above the muttering.

"Is not human. Guild approves sale, eh? Start at five-thousand gold!"

Again the crowd noise rose. Many a questioning look was directed at known Guild members, including Sard. He made no response.

"Five-thousand!" That first offer was the spur that some in the assemblage needed. Bidding started to climb. Other shook their heads in disgust and turned to leave the Bazaar.

"Good. We can easily follow Braxes in this mob. Come along apprentice," commanded Roland.

Daelynn was looking hard at Sard. "Slavery was outlawed in the kingdom generations ago…" She got no further as he angrily cut her off.

"That only applies to The Peoples - humans, elves, dwarves and the like. This… abomination is allowed."

She assumed he meant the auction and not the caged creature.

"The Guild agreed to this?"

His dark eyes met hers. "Yes. Our contract with the Zhentarim, which is centuries old, cannot be flouted. Abrogation would…have consequences for the Guild." He could see she was not placated. "That section of the contract – it has never been invoked before tonight - will be removed. But only after a vote of senior Guild members. There is nothing that can be done this night!"

With that, he turned and left.

"Damn it, lass. We have ta go! Bazaar rules keep Braxes and his prize safe fer tonight, but we need ta know where he gets to!"

Within a few minutes the bidding had risen to twenty-five thousand gold pieces and seemed destined to stay there. Daelynn looked at the crowd, which had appreciably thinned. Those remaining were mostly well-dressed, masked or hooded men with body guards. Beside most of the guards lay small chests. None could hold so much gold as was being bid. Gems, perhaps?

"You recognize 'Lady' Geirth, yes," asked the auctioneer? He indicated an old woman at the far side of the warehouse. The crone was the madam of one of Capitol's more notorious brothels. "Prize she guarantees is pure!"

The bidding started afresh. Daelynn's stomach churned. The elf studied the shackled Aasamir. She was lovely. Golden-white skin that seemed to shine; eyes of a silvery hue that showed no pupil; hair as white as her feathered wings which, while beautiful, were small and did not look strong enough to enable flight. The girl had delicate features cast in a sorrowful gaze. She knew what was to be her fate.

Roland placed a hand on the Daelynn's shoulder. "We must leave. Now," he said firmly.

The elf shook her head, finding it difficult to look away from the Aasamir. "What? But... your employer did not even know that object, or Braxes was here! How do you know they even want it?"

"The fact she did na know about the odder half o' the Trysech causes me some conc'rn. But I know her mind. That prize canna stay under Beshaban control."

"You know what is to be her fate?" She demanded, pointing at the Aasamir. "She may not survive this night!"

Roland looked at the caged creature as if seeing her for the first time. He frowned. "A pet, or a plaything? Better that then ending up owned by a mage who'd cut he up for parts? And what the Zhentari canna' sell, they'd dispose. Our prior'ty is elsewh're."

Daelynn nodded. She well knew the rules governing the relationship between master and apprentice. Even their informal and unlawful arrangement demanded that, where the master led, the apprentice followed.

Violet eyes, already darkening to a purple, stared at Roland.

"Thank you, Sir Roland. Good-bye."

Turning from her mentor, Daelynn worked her way closer to the cage. A final offer of fifty-thousand was accepted by the auctioneer.

Four Zhentarim trundled the cart holding the Aasamir to a doorway at the far eastern end of the large warehouse. The winning bidder and his bodyguards, each carrying a small chest, followed. Daelynn tacked across the warehouse, weaving in between departing guests and Zhentarim to a door on the northeast end. She entered unopposed and paused to listen. She could hear nothing above the general hubbub in the open portion of the warehouse she had just quit. Moving to another door, she slowly opened it and passed into a dim corridor. This part of the warehouse consisted of a warren of smaller storage and counting rooms, interconnected by doors and short, dark corridors. Her darkvision was of enormous aid in navigating what amounted to a maze.

Moving into a modest-sized room lit by a small lantern, she spied two small chests lying open on a table. Empty. She passed a flight of rickety stairs that led upwards; she could just make out the line of a door or hatch set in the ceiling. Two doors at the far side of the room were closed. A faint light spilled out from under the one on the left.

Pulling down her hood and scarf, she pressed an ear against the door. She could make out two male voices, one speaking the heavily accented Common of the Zhentarim, the other with the flat intonations typical of the kingdom's southern baronies.

"My Lord Baron," said the Zhentari. "Price paid does not cover transport."

"For what I paid, the damned cage should be gilded!"

"Transport extra."

"Very well." There was a peevishness in the Baron's reply. "Here."

Daelynn heard the tinkle of coins.

"There is a house by the southern gate. Tall, columned portico, red tile roof. I will await her there."

She heard footsteps receding and a door closing. Carefully lifting the latch, she turned her head to avoid being blinded, and opened the door a crack. Light spilled into the room. Pausing to let her eyes adjust, Daelynn calmed her breathing.

After a moment she opened the door wider and peered inside. Except for the tall, covered cage, the room was empty. Small, feeble torches on two walls lit the central portion of the room, leaving the corners in shadow. She crept forward, grabbed the heavy, black tarpaulin and pulled it off. She found herself looking into the silver eyes of the Aasamir girl. Daelynn's breath caught in her throat. She was lovely! The elf moved forward to better see the wondrous creature. Those eyes! One could fall in to them - they were so big. She suddenly stopped and shook her head. Some sort of compulsion had been cast! Throwing off the spell effect, the elf gave the girl a stern look, causing her to scuttle back, a worried look on her face.

"I am familiar enough with magic to know when a charm is in use," she said, crossly. "You needn't try to enchant me. I am here to help you."

The Aasamir, or whatever she was, looked doubtful.

"You do want out of here, don't you?"

The girl nodded.

Daelynn circled the cage to its door, which was secured with a large, crude padlock. A careful inspection revealed a fine wire leading from the door's lowest horizontal bar to a small hole in the base of the cage. The wire would be disturbed by any attempt to open the door. She very gently placed a finger-tip on the wire and ever so slightly moved it to one side. It was slack. So, if it were drawn tight by the opening of the cage door? Best not to find out what that might entail. She took a small tool from her boot and snipped the wire. Returning her attention to the padlock, the elf selected a sturdy pass key and used it to force the wards and open the lock.

Pulling the door wide, Daelynn stepped back and motioned the Aasamir to come out. The girl crept forward. As she passed through the cage's doorway she shuddered and stumbled. Daelynn caught her and helped her stand upright. Odd, thought Daelynn. The girl had looked so small in the cage, but she was easily as tall as the elf.

The attack caught both of them by surprise. A solid blow across her back sent Daelynn stumbling forward, into the Aasamir. Something grabbed her by the cloak. She was yanked backward and sent crashing in to a wall. The Aasamir girl raised her hands to ward off a strike but the heavy chains slowed her. A tall figure in black swung a fist; the blow knocked her to the floor.

Gritting her teeth, Daelynn pushed off the wall. Coming in low, she struck at the groin, stomach and legs of the Zhentari guard. He staggered back, grunted and swung his club at the elf. There is a common belief that a large man cannot move fast. The Zhentari disproved that. Daelynn only half-dodged the blow. The tip of the club struck her left shoulder which instantly numbed. Had the blow landed true, bones would have broken.

With her right hand she drew her knife and slashed. As fast as the elf was, her foe was faster. The man twisted to one side, evading the blade, and with his free hand, caught the elf's wrist in a crushing grip, causing her to drop her blade. Dropping his own weapon, he quickly struck her on the side of the head then grabbed her throat. She was slammed against the wall a second time. She could feel the heat from the torch set in the wall sconce beside her.

Daelynn struggled, but the man was incredibly strong. There was a roaring in her ears and her vision dimmed. She went limp. The Zhentari was too experienced a brawler to believe that his prey had so soon succumbed to his strength, but he had to shift his body to support the thief's weight. His stance widened. The elf delivered a solid and well-placed kick to his groin.

The man barely flinched. But, for a mere instant, his grip loosened. Daelynn tore her wrist free and stuck her arm into the blazing torch beside her. She closed her eyes, wincing in pain. The flash powder hidden in her right sleeve ignited, brilliantly illuminating the room, blinding the Zhentari.

The man staggered back, bellowing, and clawing at his eyes. Daelynn somehow managed to stay on her feet and staggered forward. She needed to take advantage of his temporary blindness; the effect would swiftly pass. She stumbled and swayed. Damn! She was not going to make it!

The Zhentari could only dimly make out his opponent. It was enough. He would charge. Crush his enemy. His strength and experience would carry him through to victory. They always had.

A shadow flicked across him, wrapping itself about his arms and legs. He slowed. Stopped. Straining against blackness the Zhentari was held immobile. Stiffening suddenly, he silently dropped to the floor. The shadows released him, flowing away from the light.

A tall figure, half hidden by wisps of shadow, stood behind the Zhentari. Stepping forward into the torch light, Roland bent forward and drew a long slender knife from the man's back. Wiping it on the deceased's clothes, he returned it to his belt.

"I think ye could o' taken 'im, but we don't have much time. So, I hope ye'll excuse me interf'rence."

"Sir Roland." It took Daelynn two attempts to speak. Damn, but her throat hurt.

"Aye."

"What? What are you doing here? Should not you be off protecting some treasure important to your employer?"

"I am," replied the thief.

Daelynn looked at the man. Always enigmatic. "Thank you for the help."

"O' course. So, what's the plan?"

Daelynn pointed to the Aasamir girl, who was shakily getting to her feet. "Shackles off. Retreat to next room. Take stairs to roof. Find way down at south end. Lots of shadows there. Cross bridge. Coach." Her speech was raspy. Speaking was a chore.

As the elf collected her knife and carried out a quick search of the fallen guard, Roland inspected the silvered chains that held the girls wrists. The chains were thick. Far stronger than required to hold so small a person. There was something engraved on them.

"Oh, ho! Not only an exc'lent lock, but these are magically w'rded too. Somethin' about 'binding'… Na. 'Holdin' back' or 'containing' is more corr'ct. Let's see, then."

Although of fine craftsmanship, the manacles were no match for the old thief's skills and tools. In the space of a few slow breaths he had the chains off the girl's wrists and ankles. She stood looking at her wrists for a moment then turned and nodded at each of the thieves.

Daelynn led them to the next room. Quickly mounting the stairs she pushed open the ceiling door and the three clambered out onto the large, flat, warehouse roof. Shouting from below told the elf that the absence of the Aasamir had been noted. She lowered the door. There was bolt on the door's exterior which she quickly shot closed. Running to the southeast end of the roof, they passed several small wooden lean-tos. Crude shelters from rain and sun for the crews that manned the derricks and winches set along the canal side of the warehouse. Operated from the warehouse roof, they aided in unlading heavy cargo from the ships and scows that plied their trade along the canal. A number of wooden racks, some supporting sailcloth, spread for drying, were scattered across the rooftop.

Reaching the end of the roof, they paused to catch their breaths. A warm breeze touched them. The moon, while not full, shone too brightly for the elf's liking. Daelynn looked down between the warehouse and the next building along the canal, also a warehouse. While the area was dark, it was not as deeply shadowed as she had hoped. Damn moon. She looked across to the opposite roof. No - too far to jump. Stepping to the edge, she looked across the canal. Somewhere in the deep shadows of the far side their coach waited. Looking down, she saw the stern of the Zhentari ship to her left. Beside her was a derrick used to load and unload cargo from moored ships. The derrick arm stretched out above the canal and angled towards the arm of another crane belonging to the neighboring warehouse. Could she run the length of the arm, make the jump to the other derrick's arm, and gain the roof of the neighboring building? Could Roland jump that far? There were no shadows out above the waters of The Creek to aid him. Could the Aasamir?

Turning to the girl, Daelynn started. She had appeared so small in the cage, but when released, she was the elf's own height. But now she stood more than a head and half above her! The girl, no, the woman, stood tall and fierce. Her golden skin shone. Her wings... Her wings were huge, arching high over her head, the tips almost touching the ground. The being tore the green rag, now far too small to cover much, from her, stretched her arms to the heavens and stood bathed in moonlight. She could have been an avatar of a goddess. Daelynn could not but notice that she sported feathers in another place besides her shoulders.

"Goddess protect us," muttered Roland.

Daelynn nodded, whispering prayers to her mother's Goddess, her father's Protector, and Tymora. What had they released?

The silvered-eyed, winged giantess turned to Daelynn and spoke. It had a beautiful voice, but it was not human. Hearing it caused both thieves to tremble. It seemed to have heard the elf's question even though it had not been spoken aloud.

"I am not Aasamir, but Deva. Betrayal and bad luck brought me to this Plane and captivity. Accept my thanks for releasing me?"

Daelynn nodded dumbly.

"Then receive Irma's gift." The Deva leaned down, silver orbs boring into the elf's purple eyes. Still with gaze locked, the Deva gently kissed her rescuer full on the mouth. Daelynn swayed. _Ú_ _dun_! That was unlike anything she had experienced! She felt a wave of fire, then ice, course through her. The eldritch energy quickly faded. Did she hear a whisper? A laugh?

The Deva smiled, nodded to Roland, and leapt off the roof. Wings spread wide, she glided out over the waters of The Creek at great speed. Shouts, cries and the smashing of wooden planks, caused the thieves to turn away from the amazing sight of an Angel in flight to focus on their own peril.

"Well, thet's just a fine 'thank you'!" Roland spat. "An' now we got men in the alleyway below. Moon's too bright ta do much with shadows."

Something tore the trap-door that lead down to the warehouse off its hinges and sent it spinning across the roof. Men poured out. Large, angry, black-clad men waving a variety of weaponry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 – Allies…**

Grim men spread out over the roof. Four of them, either by luck or design, headed to corner where the thieves were. Catching sight of them, the men shouted and started to run, each eager to be the one to kill or capture the fools who dared steal from the Zhentarim.

A portion of the roof between the four charging men and the thieves was covered in thin shadows of a lean-to and drying racks, cast by the bright moon. Roland ran forward to intercept the Zhentarim before they could pass that darkened section. Pulling throwing stars from her belt, Daelynn moved to her left, drawing two of the four men away from Roland.

There was not much in the way of shadow with which to work. At the elder thief's command, the stretch of darkness upon which he was concentrating rippled just as the two black-clad men crossed over it. One tripped and fell flat. He lay pinned to the ground by a formless darkness that chilled even his jaded soul. The second man was nimbler; he stumbled but kept his feet. Roland was ready. Knives glinted in the moonlight. In mere seconds the Zhentari fell dead at Roland's feet. He cast a quick glance back at his apprentice, then turned his attention to his remaining opponent. Focusing his mind, Roland tightly closed his left fist as if crushing something in his hand. A muffled scream, some gurgling, and the sound of what could have been twigs snapping echoed across the roof. The shadow enshrouded form lay still.

With flicks of her wrists Daelynn sent two throwing stars at her furthest foe. He staggered and slowed. The second Zhentari closed on her, reaching forward with one hand, the other hand, holding a short-sword, swung back, lining up for a deadly strike. The elf grabbed the man's outstretched wrist, twisted, and pulled him closer. A quick twist and she threw him over her hip. He landed hard, teetering just at the roof edge. A kick sent him tumbling over and into the alley below. Daelynn dropped low, expecting her other opponent to have recovered from the shock of being struck by shuriken and be upon her. But he lay ten feet away, sprawled on his back. Lifeless eyes staring up at the night sky.

The elf scurried forward, and removed her two stars; one from the Zhentari's neck, the other from a shoulder. While they had slowed him, it was the short arrow sticking up from his chest that had killed him. It had entered from his front, right side. She quickly cast a glance around and behind her. There, on the roof of the adjacent warehouse – the moon-cast shadow of someone holding a bow! Before she could make out any other details, the figure stepped behind the cover of a derrick, disappearing from view.

The Zhentarim saw it first. Pointing skyward, one of the ship's crew shouted, attracting the attention of his fellows. Daelynn and Roland could see the Zhentrim nearest them gazing upwards; the men started shouting and gesticulating wildly. Roland and Daelynn looked up and froze in place. High above the wide canal, a winged figure hovered in the sky. Outlined by the moon it made a beautiful, and at the same time a terrible sight. Folding her wings, the Deva dove towards the rooftop, quickly gaining speed. Daelynn gasped - she expected the Deva to crash in to the Zhentarim, who were attempting to close ranks in an effort to protect themselves. A vain effort.

The Deva suddenly spread her wings wide, halting her reckless dive, then forcefully brought them together in a thundering clap. A boom echoed across the roof, washing over the men. Sailcloth, cordage and their supporting racks flew off the roof, landing in the yard below. Bodies were sent tumbling. All the Zhentarim were knocked off their feet; half were left stunned with some being deafened.

Leaping in to the air, the Deva wheeled overhead, then dropped out of sight into the yard below. She emerged at the far end of the warehouse, passing over Daelynn's position. She carried two flaming branches torn from the bonfires that still burned on the warehouse grounds. She turned sharply, her flight taking her over the Zhentari ship. Without pause she dropped the brands, one landing on the man deck in a pile of rope, the other falling through an open hatchway. She continued flying east following The Creek, disappearing into the night.

Someone on the ship started ringing an alarm bell. With groans and curses, the surviving Zhentarim on the roof began to stagger to their feet. A few, unable to bear the awful power of the wronged and vengeful Celestial, lay where they had fallen. This was the thieves chance to flee. Daelynn pointed at Roland, then to the side the building and alleyway.

"Go!" she shouted.

He nodded and ran to the side of the warehouse. Using his climbing skills and with assistance from summoned shadows, he easily descended to the ground. The elf did not follow. Daelynn looked across the alley at the roof of the building beside her. She could not see the archer who had slain the Zhentari but suspected that they were still over there. Discretion battled with curiosity. Curiosity won. She clambered around the derrick supports and started running out along the derrick arm. The wooden beam was several inches wide - keeping her balance was no great feat. She was almost at the end of the arm! From there, it was but a leap to the other derrick, and a simple walk along it to the other warehouse roof.

An arrow thudded into the beam below her foot. She cast a quick look down and back. Several men on the ship, not engaged in fighting the fire that had caught below decks, were aiming bows and crossbows at her. Not good! Two more arrows flew by her head. She was at the end of the crane arm. Goddess! The other arm looked so far away! Could she jump that? Ropes dangled below the crane. If she missed the jump there was chance she could catch one of those ropes.

The cold, dark waters of The Creek lay beneath her. Zhentarim were still on the warehouse roof behind her. Another missile whizzed past. She crouched and prepared to jump when an arrow, better aimed than its fellows, pierced her left thigh. Daelynn cried out, her leg buckling. In an amazing display of concentration and balance she pulled herself back over the beam. Left undisturbed she likely could have regained a secure perch on the wooden arm. From there she might have been able to lower herself down the ropes to the canal or even to the pier along the warehouse. But that was not to be.

A blunt crossbow quarrel hit her high in the back. Zhentarim used blunted bolts when hunting small game, or to stun their targets and do minimum damage to the merchandise. Much against her will, the elf toppled off the crane into the dark waters below.

Daelynn hit the surface hard. The arrow in her leg tore out. She tried to scream but cold water filled her mouth. Her heavy cloak wrapped itself around her limbs. She flailed. She could not catch her breath! As she sank below the surface, she though that Sir Roland would be very displeased to lose another apprentice.

Roland slipped along the now empty alleyway between the warehouses. At the pier he peeked out and back towards the black ship. In the light offered by Selune he could see smoke billowing out of the ship's hold, but no sign of flames. A few men near the stern were pointing up at one of the derricks. Looking up and out over the canal Roland saw Daelynn poised at the end of the crane arm. Stupid girl! Why had she gone that way? To try to draw them away for him, no doubt. He saw the two missiles strike her. Heard a cheer from the ship. Watched the elf fall. Saw her go under the water. He waited a moment, then a moment longer. She did not resurface.

It was dour old thief who returned to his coach on the far side of the canal. He met only two obstacles, both in the form of guards at the bridge set up by the Red Scar gang when the auction had started. The Red Scars tried to stop him. He slew them.

Reaching the coach, he nodded curtly to his coachman. The man roused the horses and made ready to leave. Roland stopped, his hand on the coach door. He turned and slowly walked to the edge of the wide canal. The warehouse was now dark, with no sign of movement near it. The black ship had put out and by use of oars and a small sail was moving downstream. After a set of locks The Creek joined the River Silver. The Zhentarim could make it to the sea in a day or so. And then what? Home? Roland doubted that a certain avenging Angel would make it easy for them.

An arm suddenly rose from the beneath the surface of water and grabbed onto the stone lip of the canal. He jumped back, hand dropping to knife, left fist raised. The arm was followed by Daelynn's head and shoulders. The elf gasped, sucking in air. Soaking wet, wounded, bedraggled, and half-drowned the elf, with Roland's assistance, crawled out of the water.

"Nice night for a swim, was it?" the thief asked of his student.

In reply, Daelynn retched, spewing water over his boots.

It was only with Roland's help that she made it to the coach. He pulled a blanket out from somewhere and wrapped her in it. He checked her over. It was a bad leg wound, and the way she was holding herself suggested a broken rib or two. Likely from the fall. Burns on her right forearm. Her right sleeve was torn open at the shoulder. The beautiful fish tattoo was now a dull, flat black. All color seemed to have been removed from it.

"Thet aunt o' yours? The one who does such nice tattoos. An artist," he asked?

"Yes."

"And a mage?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Water breathin' spell then?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Let's get you fixed up. It's gonna take a Healer. I know a good one. He doesn'a ask questions, but it'll take some gold. You can work off that debt by finding Braxes for me. Goin' ta tell me why you want'd to try thet jump?"

Daelynn told Roland of the archer who had helped her against the Zhentari.

"We have an ally," she wheezed.

Her mentor let out a harsh laugh. "More likely jest someone who dislikes the Zhentarim. An' I'd not count the Deva as an ally either. But at least she's no enemy of ours. An odd night this 'as been."

"Allies might be unknown, but we do now have an enemy. The Zhentarim," opined the elf.

"Na. Ship's left. They've no idea who we were. I would na' worry about them."

Daelynn was slumped into a corner of the coach, not really listening anymore. Something between sleep and passing-out had claimed her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 – … and Enemies**

The Zhentarim brigantine moved slowly down the canal. Long sweeps were being used to propel the ship downstream; the warm night breeze could not fill sufficient sail to move the ship as quickly as her captain wished.

The bald-headed auctioneer, the ship's commander, sat in his small cabin listening to his first officer's report. Fire damage to the ship – minimal – one-thousand silvers to repair. Fire damage to cargo - serious. Bales of expensive silk had gone up in flames, equivalent to five-thousand gold pieces lost. Crew losses – six dead by combat against unknown intruders in the warehouse and on the roof. Another six killed by the Deva on the warehouse roof. Crew injured – five with breaks, cuts or burns severe enough to require care and rest. Another two deafened, perhaps permanently. Those injuries were all from the Deva's attacks or from fighting the fire. As far as anyone knew, two intruders had released the girl. One had died while fleeing the warehouse. Ship status – fair to poor. They'd not had time to repair damage earned earlier from their rough voyage through northern waters to Capitol. Heading back out to sea in this shape was unadvisable.

"Yes," agreed the Captain. "Unadvisable. But with a damned Deva soaring in the sky we dare not lay in too close to shore for repairs. We will have to head out to deeper water. With no land to rest upon she will tire. We can evade her. We might even live to see home."

The first-mate nodded his head.

"Why do I feel you have saved the worst news for last, Dhamir?"

The first-mate cleared his throat, then delivered the really bad news. "Verben made a side-deal with the baron who purchased the girl… the creature... whatever. He promised delivery."

"Crap. Did the baron pay?"

"Yup."

"Shit. The deal was closed up until then?"

"Yes. Sir. We took her price; the baron took the key to the cage. All good. Then the baron asked for delivery to some place in the city. Verben accepted fifty gold."

"So, thanks to my nephew's greed we are in breach of contract. That is unacceptable. We are Zhentarim. We have a reputation to uphold. Since we can't deliver the 'girl', the entire contract is abrogated."

The captain was silent for a moment. Dhamir wanted to be anywhere else but in front of the man who had just lost fifty-thousand gold pieces and a third of his crew.

"Dhamir, we stop briefly at the locks, then it's downriver and home. With this golden harpy on our backs, we may not make it. I will be damned if what might be my last voyage ends in a besmirched reputation for this ship and crew. You will leave ship at the locks. Take Verben with you, and the fifty-thousand... in gems is best. Go back to Capitol and find that baron. Return his price to him. The contract will be voided, but not breached! We have a reputation to uphold."

"Yes, Sir. Where do we meet up with the ship?"

"You don't," replied the Captain. "No one interferes with the Zhentarim. Find out who the two intruders were. Find the survivor. Kill him. Kill his family. If the intruder who died had family, kill them as well. Make this an example to any who might challenge us. And an example to those lily-livered guild thieves. We have a reputation to uphold."

"Yes, Sir." The first-mate turned to go.

"Oh, Dhamir?" The Captain issued two last orders. "Get Cressus on deck and tell him to conjure up a decent wind. We need speed. If he cannot do that, then toss him overboard. And Dhamir? Once you have slain this thief and their families, slit Verben's throat. He had no right to alter a contract as he did. It will be a lesson to others. After all, we are Zhentarim. We have a reputation to uphold."

END


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